Exit Wounds
by enigma731
Summary: Grief feels like a fathomless pit, waiting to swallow him boundlessly the moment he gives in. Chase has been resisting it for years now, afraid that he will never reach the bottom if he allows himself to slip. An AU follow-up to Nobody's Fault. On permanent hiatus.
1. Chapter 1

TITLE: Exit Wounds (1/?)

AUTHOR: enigma731

PAIRING: Chase/Cameron

RATING: T

SUMMARY: Grief feels like a fathomless pit, waiting to swallow him boundlessly the moment he gives in. Chase has been resisting it for years now, afraid that he will never reach the bottom if he allows himself to slip. An AU follow-up to Nobody's Fault.

WARNINGS: Spoilers through 8x11; graphic descriptions

NOTE: So, last summer I thought I was out of House stories to tell. But then they had to go and throw a Chase neurorehab plot to this neurorehab specialist, and…you knew I had to write this, didn't you? While I (mostly) respect the creative decisions they've made to have Chase present in the rest of the season and not horribly debilitated, I wanted to explore what I feel is a more realistic path to recovery. So, this fic becomes AU after Nobody's Fault. I hope you enjoy. Oh, and by the way, today is my sixth anniversary in House fandom. I'm not sure if I should celebrate, or weep for myself. :p

_**Edit, please read:** Since some of you apparently haven't forgiven me for having fics still on hiatus, I wanted to add this. I have ideas for the entirety of this fic, and I will do my best to finish it. However, I am a graduate student now. That is my priority. My real patients are my priority. I write fic because it's fun for me, and because I feel like some of you also wanted help processing what happened to our show. I tried to keep writing even when I felt like I had nothing left to say, and that is why I have some fics that are abandoned. I'm sorry for that, but seriously? Look at my two completed novels. Look at my 160,000 word novel and then tell me that you don't think I can stick through and finish a fic. I will do my best and that's all. Sorry for the rant, but I feel like it needed to be said._

* * *

><p>Chapter One<p>

There is a peculiar characteristic of time in hospitals, when you are the patient.

In the absence of windows it stretches out, unmoving but for the passage of other tragedies unfolding all around, in the hallways, in adjacent rooms, with their paper-thin walls and open doors failing everyone's privacy. Day and night cease to exist discretely, bleeding into a nebulous crawl in the artificiality of fluorescent lighting.

In what must be the hours after waking for the second time, finding that his world has not miraculously righted itself from this nightmare, Chase lies still against the thin standard-issue pillows and listens to the rain, unseen, beating down on the roof of the hospital.

He has been unaware of the pain until now, the sight of the scalpel protruding from his shirt, fabric darkened by his own blood utterly surreal, as though the entire situation might all be some sort of cruel joke, nothing more than an illusion intended to elicit panic. Afterward, all he'd been aware of was the numbness, a terrifying void where half of his body ought to be. But now, as the minutes tick by unmarked, footsteps passing up and down the hallway outside of his room, he feels the edges of the drug-induced haze lifting, pain settling slowly.

It starts in his lower back, where he knows they have operated to remove the clot, the place that he'd watched on the monitor just a few hours before. The ache seems to spread downward, intensifying until it is as all-encompassing as the numbness. Chase considers asking for pain medication, knows that he would not be refused, and moreover that he may now be forced to depend upon it for the rest of his life, images of House coming unbidden. But for now he cannot bring himself to accept this reality, lying in the stillness of his darkened hospital room.

There is a bag of blood hung from one of the IV poles at his bedside, and it suddenly strikes him as bizarre, as though someone else's life might be seeping into his veins, keeping his heart beating.

* * *

><p>The most surprising thing about it is how very quickly the rest of the world returns to normal.<p>

Adams goes home after Cofield's decision, because they don't have another case and Foreman is obviously in no hurry to produce one, despite his obvious relief at the department coming out of the hearing more or less intact.

It is the middle of the day, and she finds herself disoriented by this fact, though it has not been that long since she was unemployed and without regular hours. Still, she is at a loss for how to react now – it feels as though she ought to be at the gym looking for something to hit, or else curled up crying in her bed. But neither of those options is truly what she wants; instead she feels disconnected, the fact that she ought to be the one in a hospital bed playing over and over in her mind, as though that might make it feel more real.

After wandering around her apartment for the better part of an hour, Adams decides that she might as well buy groceries. It's a reasonable enough activity, but picking up milk and eggs seems a bizarre way to follow up being slashed with a scalpel and nearly losing her job as well as her sanity. She drives past the store and ends up back at the hospital practically without a conscious decision.

Chase appears to be asleep when she arrives at his room, and that is almost a relief. She has nothing to say to him, she realizes, her own emotions surrounding the past few days still a roiling mass dominated by confusion. Satisfied that there is nothing for her to do here, she turns to leave.

"You come to apologize too?" Chase asks, stopping her on the threshold.

"I came to see if I could help," Adams says, caught off guard by the question. The truth is that she has been holding herself wholly responsible for his injuries, and yet it has not occurred to her to apologize.

"But then you decided you couldn't, so you were just gonna leave quietly," Chase continues, bitterly. "Don't worry, you're not obligated."

"I know I'm not," she snaps, surprised by the unexpected sting of his words. Something has changed in him over the past few hours; this is a side of him she has never seen.

"Then get out. I don't want help, and I don't want sympathy. You can feel free to pass that on to the rest of the department."

"Chase—"

"I'm not the departmental freak show," he interrupts, cruelly. "And I'm not gonna make you feel better about what you did. You're the _last_ person whose help I want right now."

This time, as she turns from his room and begins about the business of getting her life back to normal, Adams does it with an air of defiance.

* * *

><p>Physical therapy is a comfort at first, even the sudden unbearable pain in his back and legs a reminder that <em>something<em> is happening, that this part of his body is not simply dead to him as he'd feared for those few awful moments. It seems promising that they ask him to begin only two days after surgery.

But when the second and third sessions pass, and Chase finds himself barely able to do more than stand upright while resisting the urge to vomit from the sheer agony of it all, it begins to feel like torture, a reminder of everything he once took for granted.

Regaining function does not mean getting back to normal, he realizes slowly. It means fighting desperately for mere approximations of movements, slow, shuffling steps that make a mockery of the miles he once ran effortlessly at the gym every week.

Regaining function also does not mean that the pain will go away. It means adjustment after adjustment to his new medication regimen, and talk of coping strategies which seem absurd in their utter ineffectiveness.

By the end of the third session, Chase falls back into his now-familiar hospital bed wishing that it had not been a clot after all, that the damage had been total and permanent.

Because then there would have been no choice, no fight to surrender and lose.

* * *

><p>He stays in the hospital for one week and four days, marking time by the torment of physical therapy. Adams does not try to visit again, nor anyone else on the team.<p>

House is a spectral presence, now choosing to remain unseen, but still undoubtedly close by.

Chase is the sort of patient who ought to have family members contacted by now, ought to be surrounded by loved ones offering help. But anyone who might have played that role in his life is beyond reach now, dead or driven away by his own self destruction.

When Chase is able to drag himself twenty feet down the hallway outside the rehab clinic, he makes the decision. It seems a crucial moment: twenty feet is far enough to get from the street to just inside of his building, and suddenly he cannot bear the thought of staying any longer in this place.

House comes in as he is finishing the AMA paperwork.

"I don't suppose I need to tell you that you're _insane_. And also an idiot, but that part isn't new."

"Get out," Chase growls, struggling to focus as the writing on the page blurs. For days now, his mind has seemed hyper-alert, contingencies for the future racing through it as the rest of his body lagged behind. But now it seems impossibly difficult to concentrate.

"Your new martyr complex is really unattractive," says House. "It'll be even better when you end up killing yourself. Are we supposed to cry for you then? Because I'll be standing at your funeral telling anyone who shows up that _you're an idiot_."

"I'll be fine," Chase insists, scribbling a signature haphazardly through the last line.

"Right." House holds up a chart, and Chase realizes belatedly that it is his own. "You've been running a fever for the past three days. White count is up, too, and you're still having arrhythmias. Think you're too good to get an infection? Have other complications? You need to be here for another week, minimum."

Chase shrugs, pushing those thoughts away. Those concerns pale in comparison to the pain and humiliation of enduring this any longer, being told in any more official terms just how hopeless his situation is becoming. "That's why they invented antibiotics. I did go to medical school, you know."

Something shifts in House's face. "Then I'd think you'd know more efficient ways to commit suicide." He turns and leaves without another word.

* * *

><p>Things have changed, subtly and profoundly.<p>

Adams has never had trouble sleeping before, but now she finds herself sitting up into the predawn hours, pretending to read until her eyes refuse to focus on the page.

It isn't fear, exactly. It isn't nightmares.

Instead she feels filled with a strange energy, as though everything around her has been abruptly amplified.

* * *

><p>It takes Chase half an hour to make it to the couch.<p>

He is forced to stop and rest twice, dry-heaving in the elevator when the pain and vertigo become overwhelming.

But the soft leather cushions are a comfort when he sinks into them, and he falls asleep immediately, to the sound of a fresh downpour beginning outside.

When he wakes, much later, the pain is so intense that he can scarcely bring himself to move. Only now does he realize how hard they have worked in the hospital to keep his medications in balance, how much it has meant to have even the minimal help the nursing staff has provided.

He is utterly alone now, with his empty apartment and the ghosts of a thousand mistakes.

This is not going away, he thinks, as he struggles to sit up and sort through the bag of medications he's dropped by the couch. His fingers feel clumsy as he works to open a pill bottle, and he turns that realization over and over in his mind as he forces the pills down a dry throat. He is never going to get back the life which ahd seemed so certain just a few short days before.

Grief feels like a fathomless pit, waiting to swallow him boundlessly the moment he gives in the smallest inch. He has been resisting it for years now, afraid that he will never reach the bottom if he allows himself to slip. He has tried desperately to bolster himself with alcohol and the shoddy imitation of intimacy, and it has landed him here, with nothing.

* * *

><p>"Chase dropped out of physical therapy." Adams goes to House the moment she is certain, though she's hardly even needed to check the computer to confirm her suspicions.<p>

"Yep," says House, sounding completely unsurprised. "He also dropped out of lying in a hospital bed."

"I know he was discharged." Adams takes a step closer, struggling as always to read his face. "That's no excuse to slack on rehab."

"Chase discharged himself. Don't worry, I already informed him that he's an idiot."

"He left AMA?" It feels as though her world is shifting again, as though she ought to have given more credence to her original concerns, forced him to accept some form of help. "You have to do something!"

"And what exactly do you think I should be doing?" House sounds almost resigned.

"I don't know." Adams finds herself searching for the words. "If he were any other patient, you wouldn't let him get away with this. You'd push and manipulate until he caved and went back to therapy. Because you'd know it was in his best interest."

"I solved his problem," says House. "My job is done. And physical therapy is a waste."

* * *

><p>When Chase wakes again it is dark outside, and he is uncertain how many hours he has lost in sleep.<p>

His clothes are drenched in sweat that makes him feel terribly chilled. His chest wound is throbbing, barely masked by the deep ache radiating out from his lower back, and he realizes in the dim light from the window that it has bled through the thin bandage to stain the couch cushions darkly.

His throat feels swollen and he thinks he ought to get up and change the bandages, or at the very least have something to drink. But moving brings the pain to life; his head swims dangerously, and suddenly it feels vividly as though he has been stabbed again, as though he can sense the cold metal of the scalpel hanging out of his skin in ragged contrast.

Chase pulls his shirt over his head in a rush, shivering convulsively as his muscles seem to leave his control. He tears the bandage away without thought, jumping when the headlights of a passing car illuminate his hands, wet with his own blood.

And then he is scrambling for the pills again, desperate now to find the numbness once more, unconsciousness, oblivion.

He swallows six immediately, one dose seeming hopelessly inadequate. The pills catch in his throat and he gags, reaching reflexively for the bottle that is always close by lately. The alcohol burns all the way down, and the thought briefly crosses his mind that it will be dangerous in combination with the pills.

But in this moment fear outweighs all else, and he drinks until the bottle is empty.

* * *

><p>When there is no sign of movement after the third knock, Adams wastes no time in breaking into Chase's apartment. She is prepared to find him stubborn, angry, unreceptive. She has come here expecting a fight, has even told herself that it might be therapeutic for them to yell at each other.<p>

What she has not prepared herself for is what she finds in his apartment.

Chase is curled up on the couch, half naked and covered in so much blood that it sends images of that day rushing back into her mind, slamming into her with such force that for a moment she actually contemplates simply running away.

But then the rest of her instincts kick in and she crosses the room in a few long strides, kneeling beside the couch. For one terrible instant, she thinks he must be dead, but his eyelids flutter as she feels for a pulse, there, but too rapid and also irregular.

"What did you do?" she demands.

"Allison," Chase whispers, and his eyes tell Adams that he is not present with her in this time and space. "What I did...It—wasn't real. You know I could never do anything to hurt you, right?"


	2. Chapter 2

TITLE: Exit Wounds (2/?)

NOTES: Thank you so much for the amazing response to the first chapter!

* * *

><p>Chapter Two<p>

The ambulance seems to be taking an absolutely inordinate amount of time to arrive.

Adams has heard this from family members of her patients at least a dozen times. But she has never really considered it before, has assumed it must be simple hyperbole.

Now it seems almost ridiculous that she should find herself in this position—thirty-two years old and a perfectly competent doctor—waiting in paralyzed fear like a child. Never before has she been in this particularly role, helplessly watching the seconds tick by, away from a very real person in her life.

But Chase must have, she thinks, remembering now the things he's said about his mother. She wonders if it was like this for him as well, if the particular terror of moments like this one is something you could ever outgrow.

Chase is unconscious by the time she has hung up the phone, and it is almost a perverse relief. The peculiar far-off look in his eyes had been far more disconcerting than silence.

Adams checks for his pulse again, just to be certain she has not imagined it in the first place, and when she gently shifts his head to the side, she finds herself distracted by the gaping wound in his chest where a row of neat little stitches ought to be.

She can see the clean edges of the incision, she realizes, and this fact fascinates her. It seems so concrete, routine: how to make a surgical cut to give clear access to the heart. But this is Chase, her colleague—her _friend_—lying here resembling a textbook, a cadaver.

He is bleeding heavily, but slowly enough that she manages to reassure herself that it is only the surgical incision site, that the tiny patch that has saved his heart must still be in place.

She can smell the metallic tang of blood as she kneels beside the couch, and in the lull of waiting it tugs her back to those awful few moments. Adams closes her eyes as the memories assault her: how time had seemed to freeze when she'd caught sight of the scalpel protruding from his chest, how it had been so foreign it was almost difficult to identify what had happened. How shockingly warm the rush of his blood had been under her fingers, against her skin. How his heart had felt like a small, wounded animal against her hand, leaping futilely in a losing battle for life.

And then there are sirens outside, startling her back into the present, and she nearly cries with relief.

* * *

><p>The first thing Chase becomes aware of is the sudden lack of pain. For days now he has been agonizingly aware of every tiny movement, of the deep ache in his chest which comes with every breath, of the pressure of his blood throbbing in his veins. But now there is nothing, nothing at all, a numbness as complete as that of the surgical anesthesia, save for the fact that he is alert.<p>

Opening his eyes, he identifies the lavish cushions of a very large couch, much more plush and expensive than his own. He has been lying on it for the past stretch of time he realizes, and that does not seem right.

The acrid scent of alcohol mixing with stale cigar smoke rouses him further. There is the sound of a baby squalling somewhere far off, and suddenly the rest of the room seems to spring into focus.

Chase sits up with a start as he realizes that he is in his father's study. He does not feel the floor under his feet as he stands, gauging his own movements by sight instead. The doors will be locked, he knows instinctively, but he tries anyway, jiggling the handles as panic rises in the back of his throat.

As a child, he'd always taken solace in a book, let the detailed surgical diagrams and magical-sounding words carry him away to another time and place, where a few cuts and stitches might be able to mend everything. But now as he turns to the familiar shelves, he realizes that they are empty, decaying, covered in cobwebs. Crossing the room to them, he runs a palm across the smooth wood, and his hand comes away coated in filth. It feels as though he is standing in a tomb, as though his past is quickly rotting away.

A flicker of movement from the far corner of the room catches in his peripheral vision, and Chase turns in a rush. House is standing there, something in his outstretched hand, and even in the dim light, it becomes apparent that the object is a scalpel.

"You wanted this," House whispers, and the sound seems to echo off all the atrophied faces of this buried memory.

* * *

><p>Foreman is there to meet the paramedics when they arrive at last at the familiar entry to the ER.<p>

Adams wonders momentarily how he has known to be here, but then she realizes that of course he would have gotten word, would have known that this particular trauma call was for Chase.

"How bad is it?" asks Foreman, the moment they are within earshot. He looks concerned, but on the surface he is all business.

"Bad," says Adams, stepping back as the transport team wheels Chase's gurney into one of the trauma bays.

They have started an IV en route, but it is otherwise unclear what needs to be done.

"He ripped his stitches somehow," she continues in a rush, feeling as though she can smell the blood still. "He's lost a lot of blood. Was having arrhythmias again. And he didn't know who I was."

Foreman frowns. "What do you mean?"

Adams hesitates. Suddenly this seems like a detail that ought to remain private. There is an exquisite vulnerability about Chase now, something she thinks he has never wanted the world to see. Working at the prison has shown her what men become like when simply surviving is the goal.

"Nothing," says Adams. "He just—didn't recognize me. He was practically unconscious anyway."

Foreman studies her for a moment, then turns back to surveying Chase, who remains mercifully unaware. "Something isn't right here. How did he rip the stitches?"

Adams shrugs. "Don't ask me. I was only going over there because I found out he'd dropped out of rehab. For all I know, whatever happened might have been hours ago."

"This isn't right," Foreman repeats. He looks hesitant now; this is a situation that would be routine under any other circumstances, beneath his current position, even. But this is his friend, and he looks every bit as lost as Adams feels.

And then House is there, his mere presence seeming to break through the stillness of uncertainty, to dictate action in one way or another, as it always does.

"Are you going to do anything, or just stand there and watch him crash?" asks House. "Because if you're going to go with watching, one of you two should definitely spring for popcorn."

* * *

><p>Time seems to slow once more, when Chase has been taken into the operating room and Foreman has banished Adams from the observation area, though whether the second is for her benefit or his own, she is not sure. She wanders the cafeteria for a while, trying to convince herself that eating something might help, but she feels shaken to her core, cracked in a way that even the most comforting food cannot mend. The sun is setting outside when she wanders through the lobby and back to the elevators, and she wonders absently where the afternoon has become lost.<p>

She takes refuge in House's office, because the outer conference room feels vast and exposed. Pausing for a moment, Adams surveys the desk before sitting behind it, as though this chair might bestow upon her House's supreme detachment, though she's becoming increasingly convinced even that might be an act, especially when it comes to Chase. Leaning back against the padded back, she closes her eyes, seeing vividly the rush of blood against the backs of her eyelids, until a gust of air signals the door's opening, bringing her back to awareness.

Park is standing there when Adams looks up, seeming even more hesitant than usual.

"What?" asks Adams, when she doesn't volunteer anything after a moment.

"Surgery's over," says Park. "I just thought you might want to know."

"And?" Adams leans forward, resting her elbows on her knees and her chin in her hands.

"And nothing. Surgery's over. Now we wait. Again." But Park is not making any sort of move to leave, and Adams feels the tension rising, words unspoken clouding the air, though she cannot guess at their meaning.

"And you want us to wait together?" she tries at last, irritated. She is being unfair, she knows, but she has always craved solitude in times of stress, and now is no different.

"I think Chase should have someone here," Park answers instead. "Don't you think?"

Adams shrugs, feeling suddenly and oddly protective. "We're here."

"He doesn't want us," Park insists. "We're-colleagues. Friends. But not-like that."

Adams thinks again of the odd vulnerability which had made the moments of panic seem almost intimate, of his confession to her that he would rather die than be a burden to anyone. "Okay. Then who do you think he wants?"

"That's the problem," says Park. "I don't know."

Adams gets to her feet as an idea takes hold, her energy renewed by the prospect of a distraction, a purpose. "If there was someone, House would know."

"He's not going to tell us," Park protests. "I'm not going to ask him. Not now."

"Then I guess we'd better start going through his files."

* * *

><p>The surroundings change instantaneously, the familiar walls of the study melting away into openness, high ceiling, darkness save for the blinding, cold blue lights directly overhead. Chase feels cold metal against his back, seeping in through the thin fabric of a hospital gown. It is this sensation which brings his surroundings into focus once more; he identifies the operating room with a little shock.<p>

It ought to be comforting: He has spent countless hours here, in control, working toward the unique satisfaction which comes with the knowledge that he has fixed the problem, restored a life. But now he is the one on the operating table, back and shoulder blades crying out in protest against the hard, unforgiving surface.

He must be at the hospital now, he thinks, and that is a relief. The realization comes in a rush: he does not want to die, is more afraid of that possibility than the prospect of bearing out the remainder of his life requiring the help of others.

Chase tries to find words to tell the anesthesia team that he is still awake, that they ought to give him something stronger for the pain. But then, choking, he realizes that his mouth is gagged with thick gauze, his wrists and ankles bound to the table. And then House is there with the scalpel once more, blade glistening in the surgical light as he runs it effortlessly through the length of Chase's hospital gown until he lies exposed and shivering on the table.

"Oh, relax," says House. "You're already dead."

Terror comes then in a way he has not thought possible, crushing even above the constant panic which has been with him since waking the first time in the hospital, realizing that everything had changed. He tries to take a breath, to reassure himself that he must be living still, but the gauze seems to fill his nose, throat, lungs.

In the next moment, Chase finds himself looking down on his own body, the way patients have described time and again, only there is no sense of peace in this moment for him. He watches helplessly as House raises the scalpel again, cutting through the fascia of his chest like it has ceased to be solid. No blood rushes out this time, flesh already pale and beginning to take on the bluish hue of putrefaction.

Plunging his hand into the cavity of Chase's body, House pulls out the heart, blackened and falling to pieces, like ash.


	3. Chapter 3

TITLE: Exit Wounds (3/?)

NOTE: Sorry this took a while! Midterms were no fun this semester.

* * *

><p>Chapter Three<p>

The most surprising thing about it is that she does not panic.

Cameron feels an odd sense of calm as she folds some things into an overnight bag, goes to the airport and asks for the first flight available. She turns the words over in her mind as she watches wisps of clouds ghost by in the void outside the window, giving way occasionally to the twinkling lights of cities below.

In the air it feels as though time ceases to exist, as though she has entered some space beyond living, the world simultaneously racing by and standing still. Past, present, and future collapsed into one, at the root of it all the certainty that she is doing what she must.

It isn't until the plane lands that Cameron feels the first stirrings of concern, of doubt. She has considered the possibility that this might be some sort of test, a trick to see how willingly she might come running back. But it has been years since she has heard anything directly from House, though Foreman still writes on occasion.

Chase has been a void in her life, a shadow, and yet also, somehow, a certainty. She has not lived her life in limbo since choosing to end their marriage, has not waited for him. And yet now it seems a given, that a call like this one would shake the foundations of her newly-constructed world.

Watching the cab pull away from the curb in front of the hospital feels as though perhaps the past two years were merely an illusion; it seems an oddly fitting coda to the car that had carried her to the airport, the signed papers deceptively weighty in her hands.

Walking into the lobby, she feels painfully conspicuous, though it is late enough that the space is nearly deserted. It feels as though she is surrounded by judgment, though she knows the real criticism is all her own.

Dr. Park is waiting by the elevators as she has promised on the phone, though Cameron feels that even without help, she would have recognized this woman from their conversation.

* * *

><p>It seems almost a relief, finding himself back in the study.<p>

Chase inhales deeply, trying to convince himself that things are all right now, that this is not simply a false calm. Something is terribly wrong, he knows in his core, though he cannot seem to place the reason why he ought not to be here right now, why he ought to be alarmed. Everything feels just slightly clouded; he finds himself increasingly unable to think.

Sitting up, Chase scrubs a hand over his face, willing the room to come into focus. When it does, the study has been restored to the façade of grandeur he dimly remembers from childhood. The book case is full once more, outdated titles still enticing in their remembered comfort. He gets to his feet, is poised to retrieve one of them, find a desperate escape at last.

But then he notices that he is still not alone, never alone. Of this he has made certain.

On the far end of the room, seated at the large table and nearly obscured behind a stack of books, is a child. Slowly moving closer, Chase recognizes the boy as himself, so many forgotten decades ago, eyes reflecting his own sea of loss.

For one breathless moment the boy holds his gaze, and Chase feels as though he is seeing possibility, ever so slightly beyond his reach. Blissful memories of a family that never existed, of a happy ending that died in its own infancy.

He takes another step forward, so that he is able to see beyond the edge of the stack of books, catching sight for the first time of the boy's hands. And then Chase feels his stomach drop at the scene that now confronts him: the scalpel again, this time held by innocent fingers, blood welling up with every heartbeat from arms that ought to be pristine, untouched still by life's injustice.

"What are you doing?" gasps Chase, feeling his own consciousness beginning to grow dimmer.

"What you should have," says the child, in a voice Chase knows as his own past.

* * *

><p>"You got here," says Park, without offering any sort of greeting or introduction. It seems unnecessary, even to Cameron.<p>

"I said I would," Cameron answers evenly, though this moment still feels so surreal that she almost needs to speak the words aloud in order to remind herself that it is actually happening.

"I know what you said," Park counters. "But I don't know you." She looks deceptively young and naïve, and for a moment Cameron wonders whether this is how outsiders looked at her, so many years ago. It is strange to think that she has been replaced now, so easily, that her particular understanding of what it is like to work for House is no longer so very unique.

"Can I see him?" asks Cameron, suddenly wanting this conversation to be over.

"I called you here to help," says Park, abruptly. The sudden shift in her demeanor is shocking, hidden authority underlying her words now. "Let's be clear about that. If you're going to make things worse, then you should just turn around and leave."

"Excuse me?" Cameron bristles, feeling blindsided again, like this might be a trap into which she has carelessly walked.

"Chase is my friend," says Park. "And all I know about you is that you hurt him."

Cameron narrows her eyes. "Then why call me?"

Park is quiet for a long moment, her uncertainty growing visibly again. "Because—there isn't anyone else. But if you can't be helpful, then you shouldn't even bother trying, because I _will_ make your life hell if you hurt him again."

"Let me see him," Cameron repeats, her concern for his condition growing real for the first time in the face of this show of protection.

"Okay," says Park, her apprehension clearly fading. But she does not make any move toward the elevator, her gaze intensely appraising now.

"What?" Cameron crosses her arms.

Park hesitates again. "Well, Chase married you. I just thought—you might be taller. And with bigger boobs."

* * *

><p>When Chase returns to awareness again, everything is dark. There is an odd finality about this; he feels as though he has been in free-fall for a very long time, coming to rest here a last.<p>

There is no hint of light, the darkness so thick that he cannot even see his own hand, his own body, cannot make out the shape of his surroundings. It is as though he has gone blind, though he knows somehow instinctively that this is not true.

The ground is solid beneath his feet, though he cannot make it out. Kneeling, he runs his fingers over it, his hands coming away coated in a powdery substance that scent tells him must be ash. But it is cold here, whatever fire has swept this place long dead.

The darkness is oddly claustrophobic, and sucking in a breath, Chase chooses a direction and starts walking, arms outstretched to find any hint of solid bounds.

But there is nothing, only more cold, dark air in every direction. Chase breaks into a run because he can, because even the bounds of his injuries are meaningless here. Panic grows within him; he wishes desperately to find something, anything real in this place of nothingness. But he runs until his lungs threaten to give out, only space all around.

"Hello?" he calls out breathlessly, and then, louder, "House?"

The words come echoing back in the darkness, his own desperation the only reply. It is then that the truth comes like an assault: the void here is absolute, nothing more hidden from view. This, then, is eternity, he realizes, and he is utterly alone, without so much as hope for a companion. There is no hell fire, no judgment, simply silence and the thousand screaming voices of his own regrets.

Feeling suddenly weak, Chase sinks to the ash-laden ground and pulls his knees to his chest, holding on as despair washes over him.

* * *

><p>Walking into Chase's ICU room, Cameron realizes immediately why she has not allowed herself to feel fear until now.<p>

So many times she has heard family members describe her patients as unrecognizable, in a state of severe illness. Cameron thinks now that this would be almost merciful, would allow her to keep some of her defenses in place.

But Chase is devastatingly familiar, looking as though he might simply be asleep on the other side of her bed. His face is pale, darkness shadowing his eyes, yet his features have the odd serenity of unconsciousness; he is so much farther away from her than in simple rest.

His bed is surrounded by monitors, a small forest of IVs keeping him alive now, and Cameron finds herself transported immediately back to college, to her first marriage, the first time she watched someone fight to cling to life. For a moment she wants nothing more than to leave again, to outrun the ghosts of her past as quickly and totally as possible. Yet she knows that distance will do nothing to dampen this terror, nothing to shield her from grief if he is unable to recover now.

Steeling herself, she carefully pulls out the chair that rests next to the bed, and sits, forcing herself to look fully at the devastation of Chase's body, to feel the weight of her own losses, past and present. She is not sure how much time has passed when the door to the room slides open again, interrupting the fragile limbo she has found in a place between grief and hope. When she looks up, Foreman is standing there, his expression telling her that he is not sure how to react to this situation either.

"I'm surprised you didn't call me yourself," says Cameron, breaking the silence before he has the chance.

"I thought about it," he answers, without volunteering anything further. He is still standing in the doorway, slightly behind her so that it is difficult to make out his face.

"But you didn't," Cameron insists, suddenly needing to know where they stand, whether he now harbors the same suspicions toward her as Park.

"You've been gone for three years," says Foreman, sighing. "You have a life in another city. Asking you to come back here now—It didn't seem fair. Everyone should have the chance to move on."

Turning, Cameron studies him for a moment, though she has never been very good at gauging his sincerity. "Is that the truth, or did you just want to keep me away from him?"

"What do you want to be the truth?" asks Foreman. Then, when she does not respond, "Probably better not to go there."

Cameron takes a breath. "Is anyone going to tell me what happened?"

Foreman takes a step further into the room at last. "We don't know, exactly. He left the hospital AMA a couple of days ago. Dr. Adams went to check on him yesterday because he'd dropped out of physical therapy. He ripped his stitches somehow and lost a lot of blood. There's also—reason to suspect he might have mixed alcohol with his pain meds."

"Intentionally?" Cameron feels the weight of those words like a physical blow, threatening her breath.

Foreman's brow furrows. "How else?"

"Foreman!" Cameron flies to her feet, feeling as though the adrenaline has finally managed to break through her manufactured façade of calm. She has allowed herself her new life justified in the thought that things were all right here, that her mistakes have done no permanent damage. "Was he suicidal? _You_ let him leave the hospital!"

"Allison." Foreman cuts her off sharply. "You haven't been here. You haven't made any attempt to keep in touch. You might want to take a good look at yourself before you start assigning blame."

Cameron takes a slow breath, struggling to find her bearings when Princeton suddenly feels more alien than the anxiety-ridden world of her dreams.

"Is there anything else I should know?" she asks quietly, suddenly glad that Chase is somewhere too far off to hear this.

Foreman is silent for another long moment. "People change."

* * *

><p>When Chase finally wakes, much later, the first thing he becomes aware of is the pain—heavy and all-encompassing, throbbing in his chest with every beat of his heart. For a very long moment he simply lies still, letting it fill him, as comforting as it is terrible, because it is distinctly <em>something<em> in stark contrast to his memory of the absolute eternal void.

There is light when he opens his eyes, though in his gut he feels as though he might be falling still, as though the fact that the terror of the void has passed may simply mean that, impossibly, he has yet to reach the worst.

Gradually the room comes into focus, and Cameron, sitting by the edge of his bed. Her presence here fills him with uncertainty. It seems one more impossibility, a cruel illusion sent here to tear at the tattered threads of his soul. He feels as though he is standing once more at the edge of an unseen precipice, cavernous depths waiting to swallow him.

"Hey," she says softly, leaning closer to the bed. "Can you hear me?"

Chase nods, swallowing against a throat that feels painfully swollen. "Are you really here?" He has allowed himself to imagine her presence so many times before – in the shadows moving across his empty living room, the silhouette of a stranger outside, the gentle hands of a nurse changing his bandages. In his mind she is the embodiment of comfort still, though his thoughts of her are filled with little other than regret.

"Yes," Cameron says firmly, taking his hand carefully and lacing their fingers. Her palm is warm and solid, and a rush of tears blurs the room around him.

"Thank god," he whispers, allowing himself to discard doubt, lose himself in this moment, because if it is solely the product of his illness, then he knows immediately that he does not want to ever recover.


	4. Chapter 4

TITLE: Exit Wounds (4/?)

AUTHOR: enigma731

PAIRING: Chase/Cameron

RATING: T

WARNINGS: Spoilers through 8x11.

NOTE: Happy spring, everyone! I hope you enjoy this chapter.

* * *

><p>Chapter Four<p>

It feels as though the world solidifies slowly, reality spreading out around the warmth of her fingers to fill the places where the void still seems to fill the empty shell of his soul.

Chase closes his eyes for a moment, focuses solely on the sensation of Cameron's thumb moving slowly over the back of his own hand, brushing the edges of the tender place where an IV is taped to his skin. He has no sense of time; everything feels still, as though the hours have simultaneously sprinted by and stood still, a mere spectator to his battle with death.

When he opens his eyes again, Cameron is watching him intently, the lines of her face tight with obvious concern. It reminds him eerily of the constant tension he'd seen in her when they'd first met, the achingly intense compassion that had made him love her before he'd truly learned to recognize the emotion in himself.

"How are you feeling?" she asks softly, when he has managed to meet her gaze again.

But Chase finds himself unable to speak, overwhelmed by the suddenness of it all, the impossible relief of finding himself here after the certainty of death, an eternity alone with nothing but his own regrets. Now everything feels just a bit raw, as though all of the past scars have been ripped away from his world to leave a delicate new beginning exposed.

Cameron watches him for a moment longer in silence before moving again, getting out of her bedside chair to pour water into a plastic cup from the pitcher on the table. There is something mesmerizing about the simplicity of this task, the familiarity of it, an action he has witnessed dozens of times throughout his years in medicine, though never before has it been truly directed at him.

It had been disorienting the first time, awakening from the strange oblivion of anesthesia to find himself surrounded by the team—and House—an approximation of caring which at the time had seemed more likely a figment of a traumatized nervous system. Having Cameron in the same space now seems utterly surreal, impossible nearly, and he feels a fresh wave of anxiety assert itself at the thought that she might be merely a symptom, one more stage of dying.

"Chase," she says softly, drawing him back to the present as her weight at the edge of the bed shifts the flimsy mattress. "Here." She is holding the cup out to him with eyes reflecting tentative hope, as though somehow water might be capable of solving everything.

"Thank you," he manages, though the sound of his voice still seems oddly foreign in his ears. He takes the water and sips it slowly, allowing himself to become aware of all the many sensations which remind him that his body is a thing of substance: the throbbing pain in his back and chest, the peculiar weight of his own arm, the sharp coolness of the water against the rawness of his throat.

Cameron takes the cup back from him as though she somehow recognizes that the simple act of drinking is exhausting to him, and again he is struck by the strangeness of it all. She is all too experienced in caring for the ill, completely comfortable in her role now, but he has no idea how to be a patient, and the incongruity is almost palpable.

"What are you doing here?" Chase asks, when the water has made it easier to speak. He knows instinctively what her answer will be, though it seems as though her presence might be perversely easier to accept if she is here by accident, simply diverted from some other purpose, a nearby conference or interview.

"Dr. Park called me," she says instead, surprising him only in that it is not House who has brought her here, that she is not simply another futile peace offering on his part. "She thought—someone should be here with you."

"But—you don't agree with her?" Chase presses, thinking that the words she has just chosen are both telling and strange. "Otherwise you wouldn't be telling me _she_ was the one who gave you the reason."

"You _should_ have someone here," says Cameron, but she is not looking at him, thin fingers playing meticulously along the threadbare edge of the blanket. "I'm just—not sure it should be me."

"If you don't want to be here—" he answers reflexively, but Cameron interrupts.

"That's not what I meant!" She takes a long breath, visibly trying to compose herself. "I _want_ to be here. It's just—the last time I saw you…why would you ever want to see me again?"

"I always want to see you," Chase answers, the usual voice of inhibition silenced for once by exhaustion, by pain, by the lingering recollection of the overwhelming solitude he's found at the edge of death. Time seems to slow again, her words bringing a merciless clarity to his world as he allows himself to see again in her eyes all the many ways he has hurt her, all the transgressions he has masked with convenient lies of bitterness and anger.

"Dr. Park thinks I'm going to hurt you," says Cameron, an unfamiliar edge of vulnerability in her voice now. "She's probably right. If I do this—I can't stay forever. You have to know that. I live in Chicago now. I can't—just give that up."

"I don't care," says Chase. She is so close that he can see the light reflected in her eyes, the fragile possibility that he could choose to reach out and seize in this moment.

For the first time, he allows himself to feel the full weight of the emptiness which has settled over his life in the past three years, the futility, the utter lack of meaning that has enveloped every decision he has made. Death will come again, he realizes, a certainty he can no longer deny. The terror of this knowledge is overwhelming; it feels as though the world is collapsing around him, the illusion of time suddenly nothing more than a shrunken and fading myth, a fraud. Suddenly he cannot shake the awareness that every breath, every beat of his heart, brings the remembered void one instant closer to reality.

Cameron reaches out in a rush, and Chase finds himself holding on instinctively, the warmth of her breath against his neck the only thing in this moment which feels truly real.

* * *

><p>It becomes easy to lie to herself, almost.<p>

In this moment, Chase seems somehow more alive than she has ever remembered, closer to her than ever before. There is an elusive strength to the way that his shoulders shake as he takes deep, gasping breaths, the force with which his fingers grasp the fabric of her shirt. It is easy, for now, to believe that his wounds are only emotional, that the worst part of his ordeal is over. That he will have to be all right in the end, that _she_ is still capable of saving him.

But gradually, the merciful suspended animation of the present seems to fade, and Cameron becomes aware of the weight of his body against hers, the fact that even sitting upright must be taking a terrible toll on him. Carefully, she forces herself into action once more, arranges pillows and slowly separates herself from him, though she keeps his hand laced with hers. For a long time he simply watches her, eyes filled with an intensity that would be disconcerting were it not matched with equal sadness, a silent need which makes her heart ache.

"You look exactly the same," says Chase, quietly. "Sometimes I feel like—maybe it was just yesterday that we were married. Like maybe I could wake up in the morning and the past three years would just be a bad dream."

"Well—what did you expect?" asks Cameron. "That I'd move to Chicago and dye my hair blue?" There is no adequate reply to the rest of his confession, no way to tell him that she does not feel the same, that now the past three years seem a gaping chasm in her life, of distance and time.

Chase smiles faintly, but it is fleeting, gone again in an instant. "I don't know what I expected. Lately I think that maybe I never really knew you at all."

Cameron takes a slow breath, torn between the profound importance of finally having this conversation, and the knowledge that she ought not to push him right now. "We were happy," she says simply, though she is no longer certain whether she believes it.

He nods once, though he does not seem any more convinced than she feels. But the exhaustion in his eyes is evident, and for now he does not argue any further, settling against the bed, a stillness about him which appears deceptively peaceful. By the time House appears in the doorway, Cameron has managed to lull herself into a superficial sense of calm, half convinced that this will be easy.

House's arrival shatters the illusion immediately, filling her with a mix of trepidation and shame more intense than any she's felt since leaving. She'd managed to elude him on her previous trip here, managed to avoid his commentary on the thin little envelope which held the remains of her marriage. But now she is all too aware that he is Chase's doctor, the inescapable bearer of bad news. Chase tenses immediately as well, the sudden strength of his grip against her hand a surprise as she'd thought he was nearly asleep.

Cameron steels herself mentally, expecting a fresh round of interrogation from House, or at the very least a display of some of his choicest biting comments.

Instead he looks straight past her, as though Chase is the only one present in the room, the only one who matters. "Did you have _any_ plans when you left the hospital, or were you actually hoping you could starve to death without anyone noticing?"

"Get out," says Chase, everything about him instantly hardened, almost unrecognizable.

Ignoring him, House comes a few steps closer, and Cameron feels her anxiety rising, as though everything here is suddenly off-balance, as though the ground might shift at any moment.

"Unfortunately for you," says House, "you made me your emergency contact. Which now means that I am obligated to update you on your medical condition. And tell you that you're an idiot."

"Fine," snaps Chase. "Update me. Then get out."

"You have endocarditis," says House. "Which is hardly a surprise, considering that your heart recently had both a dirty scalpel and a dirty glove inside of it. The little bacterial bastards have probably been brewing for days. And you just gave them a big jump start by pumping your body full of toxins."

"Great," Chase answers flatly. "So give me antibiotics and leave me alone."

"I'm not finished," House presses, and there is something almost savage in his tone now. "The bugs in your heart threw a clot. Physiologically speaking, it could have gone anywhere in your body. But un-luckily for you, the vessels in your spinal cord were already inflamed, just waiting for another clot to show up and get stuck. _Luckily_ for you, I was smart enough to check for clots after the surgery on your heart. You're welcome. You'll still probably never walk again now that you've managed to throw away the second chance you got. You can thank me when you don't have a stroke or die of sepsis."

House turns and leaves the room with surprising speed, without waiting for any sort of response. Chase looks utterly stunned, and Cameron finds herself on her feet instinctively, actions suddenly fueled by rage as she follows him into the hall.

"That was heartless!"

"Yes," says House, pausing, but not offering anything further.

Cameron crosses her arms. "And you're not going to say anything else."

House shrugs. "What do you want me to do? Cry with him? That's what I brought you here for."

"You didn't call me," says Cameron, suspicion beginning to stir once more.

"No," says House. "But do you really think Dr. Park would have found your information if I hadn't left it on my bookshelf in an envelope conveniently marked 'private?'"

"What kind of game are you trying to play?"

"Chase has been quietly trying to self destruct for months now," says House. "He doesn't want my help. So now it's up to you."


	5. Chapter 5

TITLE: Exit Wounds (5/?)

AUTHOR: enigma731

PAIRING: Chase/Cameron

RATING: T

WARNINGS: Spoilers through 8x11.

NOTE: Happy spring, everyone! I hope you enjoy this chapter.

* * *

><p>Chapter Five<p>

Chase is studying the ceiling when she returns to his room, his face a mask of tension which Cameron cannot read. It feels as though he ought to look different, somehow, not because of the diagnosis he has just been given, but because of what House has just told her about his emotional state. Instead he looks deceptively unchanged, even the hard, defensive edge he'd seemed to develop in House's presence somehow more familiar than the tentative honesty of a few moments before.

"Hey," she offers, feeling as though she is testing the waters of his reaction to this latest news.

Chase does not react, doesn't even look at her, not even when she returns to her seat at the edge of his bed. But he jerks away when she reaches for his hand again, the sharpness of his movements betraying the taut façade of calm.

Cameron takes a breath, trying to center herself, knowing she will be useless so long as her own world seems to be reeling off-kilter. "You're allowed to be upset. I know this sucks."

Chase snorts loudly, a desperate cruelty coming over his face which she has seldom seen before. "Right. It sucks. Finding out I'm never gonna walk again is pretty much on par with getting a flat tire."

"He didn't say never," she counters, too quickly, but the words trigger her own mental set of warning bells. She is getting desperate, falling into the trap of pretty lies and false hope which has ensnared her so many times before. "Don't assume that yet."

"Because you'll just kiss it and make it all better," Chase snaps. "Well thank God you're here. Otherwise I might have to rely on real medicine."

"I didn't say that," says Cameron, taken aback by his sudden show of venom, though a part of her has been expecting him to lash out all along, to decide that her vacated place in his life is too precious to ever give back, even temporarily.

"You haven't said much of anything," says Chase. "Didn't need to. I already know you think you're special. Better than House. Better than anyone. That's why it's so easy for you."

"What's easy?" she prompts, though instinct tells her she ought not to hear the answer.

"Standing around, watching people suffer. Pretending you've got something to offer, some noble reason for being there when nobody else is willing." Chase laughs, not nicely. "Truth is, you get off on it. Lets you forget how worthless you really are. You thought you could just show up here and everything would be perfect because I'm broken now. Now I'm worth something to you. Go away. I've already got more insincere pity parties than I know what to do with."

The words ought to hurt, Cameron thinks, ought to make her cry. They are intended as weapons, yet all she feels is a peculiar sense of relief as his tone rises, as his accusations grow nastier. Chase knows exactly how to strike at her greatest vulnerabilities, she knows. But _this_ is not it. This, she realizes, is simply a test, whether he is consciously aware of it or not.

"Shut up," says Cameron, firmly, surprising herself.

Chase goes silent, looking utterly shocked.

"If you want to be upset, then you have every right to be upset," she continues, certainty growing by the moment. "But don't take it out on me. That's House talking. You _know_ that isn't who I am or why I'm here. So if you're trying to see if I'll leave, save your energy. I'm not going anywhere."

Chase simply breaks, forced venom dissolving into rough sobs, clearly painful. This time he reaches out to her first, pulling her closer and holding on with the desperation of a man lost in despair, falling without end.

"Fuck," he chokes against her shoulder, breathing an obvious struggle. "Allison. I'm so sorry."

"I know," she answers without a second thought. There are multitudinous things for which she has not yet forgiven him, but this outburst is not one of them.

He is shaking terribly, and Cameron shifts closer to him on the narrow bed, suddenly all too aware of the fragility of his body, of how very easily she might hurt him now.

Chase cries until he runs out of breath, but even silenced by exhaustion and pain, he seems no calmer, sobs shifting into shudders which are almost convulsive. Cameron finds herself sprawled out along the edge of his bed, still holding on, any thoughts of maintaining safe boundaries forgotten in the overwhelming urgency of his sudden need. The precariousness of her balance on the thin mattress brings unbidden memories of the last time she was this close to him, cradled against the cold sterility of the exam room table, and Cameron feels tears of her own threatening as she thinks of the many cruel coincidences which have landed them here now.

"What am I going to do?" Chase whispers, and he has never sounded so thoroughly hopeless.

"What do you mean?" Cameron touches his cheek instinctively, catching tears with the pad of her thumb.

"I mean if—if I can't walk. If I can't take care of myself." He takes a careful breath, considering. "I can't just stay here. This place—I _can't_."

"Hey," Cameron answers gently, enormously relieved that _this_ is a problem she is actually capable of solving. "I told you I'm here to help you. You'll adjust to doing this on your own again. Even if you don't regain use of your legs. The rest of your body will get stronger to compensate. I know you know that. It's just—hard to picture right now."

"Allison." Chase pulls away a little, studying her face. "Right now—I can't even sit up on my own. It could be months."

Cameron bites her lip. "I know." Already she has thought of this; already she cannot imagine feeling able to leave him again, though staying indefinitely still feels an equal impossibility.

"I can't ask you for that," says Chase. Tentatively he reaches out to touch her cheek, fingers trembling.

"Then don't," she answers stubbornly, resting her hand over his. "You don't have to ask, because I've already decided I'm doing it."

"Thank you," Chase breathes, surprising her, though he still looks troubled by this decision. "I can't—" he trails off again, but the many possible endings to that thought seem to hang in the air between them: _Can't ever repay you. Can't say no when there's no alternative. Can't imagine why anyone would be willing to agree to this._

He looks utterly drained now, paler than she has ever seen him and yet still deeply shaken, fearful. Cameron shifts on the bed, adjusting pillows and blankets simply because it feels as though she needs some form of action now, some modicum of control. The familiar urge to fix things is almost overwhelming, to jump and offer all of herself, as though allowing herself to become lost might somehow be able to fill the broken places in him. It would be disastrous to give in, she knows, especially now and especially with him. And yet she feels incapable of distancing herself entirely, already committed to dragging him back from the brink.

Sitting up, she retrieves the cup of water from its forgotten place on the bedside table. Chase takes it from her gratefully, but nearly spills it immediately, and she catches his wrist to steady him. It seems yet another reminder of how very close he has come to death, and how difficult recovery will truly be. Handing the cup back to her, he settles against the bed, looking pained at even that small movement.

"Were you trying to kill yourself?" Cameron asks after a long moment, turning back to face him again. She ought not to be pushing him now, she thinks, though he still seems painfully tense, unable to find true rest.

Chase takes a shaky breath, reaching for her hand again and surprising her by not simply pushing her away in response to the question. "I don't know."

Cameron bites her lip, hearing House's warning again in her mind. "You left the hospital with no plans, with no physical way to take care of yourself," she presses gently. "You had to know you were going to get hurt."

Chase shakes his head, tightening his grip on her hand. "I wasn't—thinking about that. Wasn't trying to hurt myself then. I just—couldn't stay here anymore. Sometimes it feels like this whole place is poisoned. Not just House. It's like—every bad decision I've ever made is still here, just festering."

"Okay," says Cameron, willing herself to simply listen for now, to avoid judgment. "So you were trying to get away when you left. Then what happened? Foreman said you were drinking. While taking pain meds. I know you know how dangerous that is. I know you had to know what you were doing."

"I don't know," Chase repeats, harshly, without offering anything further.

"Don't know or don't remember?" Cameron prompts.

"Both." Chase swallows, visibly. "I think. It just—_hurt_. And I needed it to stop. Whatever it took."

"How long have you felt this way?" she asks hesitantly, sensing that he is speaking beyond his injuries, beyond the past few weeks. At the same time she is afraid of his answer, afraid to see the damage she has left behind, though she is uncertain whether she can truly claim it all.

"I don't want to die," he answers instead, as though sensing her reluctance. "But whatever I've been doing—I can't keep doing that, either."

"I missed you," Cameron says quietly. In this moment it seems the most she can offer, still profoundly inadequate in the face of his demons.

Chase offers her the ghost of a smile, but says nothing.


	6. Chapter 6

TITLE: Exit Wounds (6/?)

AUTHOR: enigma731

PAIRING: Chase/Cameron

RATING: T

WARNINGS: Spoilers through 8x11.

NOTE: Happy spring, everyone! I hope you enjoy this chapter.

* * *

><p>Chapter Six<p>

"You don't need to be here," says Cameron, glancing sideways as her discomfort grows. "I did live in Princeton for six years. Pretty sure I still remember my way around town."

Adams looks perfectly composed as she navigates the rush hour traffic toward Chase's apartment. She has offered her presence under the pretense of assistance, but Cameron is once again acutely aware of the scrutiny all around her. Like Park, Adams knows her only as a part of the past, one of the many factors leading to the current tragedy in Chase's life. Seeing her own responsibility reflected in the eyes of others is nearly overwhelming, and Cameron finds herself resisting the urge to prove herself. The important thing now is damage control, she tells herself, helping Chase get healthy again.

"I know," says Adams, without offering anything further. "But I thought you could use a ride. Cabs are expensive."

"Chase's car is still at the hospital," says Cameron, watching as Adams turns onto a side street and parks in the unfamiliar lot of Chase's new complex.

"And you think he would be okay with you assuming you're entitled to drive it?" asks Adams, as she climbs out of the car.

Cameron bites her lip, taken aback, hurrying to follow. She has not thought about this, she realizes, already beginning to allow herself to slip back into old patterns, dangerous habits. "I don't know. He asked me to go to his apartment. He gave me his keys."

"I wouldn't be okay with my ex driving my car," Adams insists, coming to a halt in front of Chase's door, and stepping aside so that Cameron can unlock it.

Focusing on finding the correct key, Cameron forces herself not to respond. Adams strikes her as suddenly very young, somewhat sheltered—the sort of person who understands only superficially what it is like to be in the hospital, to be terribly ill, to feel helpless and have no one.

Adams is silent as they make their way into the living room, though she is visibly uncomfortable with being here. Cameron sucks in a breath as she switches on the light; the room looks as though it might be a murder scene. The couch cushions are stained darkly with blood, shards of a broken bottle littered across the surface of the table. It seems suddenly miraculous that Chase has not simply died here, that they still have any reason to argue at all.

"You found him here?" she asks quietly, noticing that Adams seems unable to tear her eyes away from the shadowy blood stains.

Adams nods. "I found out he'd dropped out of physical therapy. It just felt like—something had to be wrong."

"I'm surprised he agreed to the therapy in the first place," says Cameron, reminded of his stubborn insistence on withdrawal whenever he's most needed help in the past.

Adams looks surprised. "He wanted to get better. Chase isn't stupid." There is an obvious edge of defensiveness in her voice.

Cameron exhales slowly, forcing herself once again not to continue the argument. She isn't going to win, she thinks, not when Adams has already firmly pegged her as the enemy. Laying out Chase's secrets for the sake of proving herself right would only vindicate everyone's beliefs that she is capable only of hurting him.

"He was delirious when I got here," Adams says abruptly, surprising her again. "I think—he thought I was you. _Wanted_ it to be you."

Cameron finds herself struck dumb by this admission, all the justifications and rationalizations of a moment before utterly silenced. That he has thought of her, has wanted her here—perhaps even before finding himself in these circumstances of no choice—seems a sign of overwhelming possibility.

"Why did you leave him?" asks Adams, but doesn't wait for a response. "Did he cheat on you?"

"No," Cameron answers sharply, the question shocking her back into the present moment. "Nothing like that."

"Really?" Adams looks skeptical. "Because I'll be honest. Chase—really doesn't seem like the committed relationship type."

"Things just—changed," Cameron answers, unnerved by the question. She does not wait for Adams to respond, moving to the bedroom instead, for the moment leaving the blood-stained couch behind.

* * *

><p>At first the pain had been a relief, a reminder to Chase that he is still alive, that this moment is real, not simply another trick of his mind. But it quickly grows to seem a cruel deception; there is no paralysis this time, no numbness, just the pain, like an impenetrable wall, which leaves him unable even to sit up without assistance. When he is alone it seems to take on a life of its own, like a shape-shifting creature. Dull, weighty, and throbbing in time with his heartbeat when he is still, trying to find the mercy of sleep; sharp and all-encompassing when he dares to shift into a new position. Moving feels as though his spine has been ripped out, as though his back ought to be a bloody, tattered mess, wicked little tendrils of fire extending down his legs and enduring for an impossibly long time after he has gone still in defeat. For days now, Chase has wanted nothing more than to be left alone, but now he finds himself wishing for any sort of a distraction.<p>

He cannot say how much time has passed when Park pokes her head into the room. He has his eyes closed, trying futilely to find sleep, though it seems impossible now, everything about his body conspicuously wrong. He senses her gaze from the doorway, the awkward tension which always seems to follow her into the room.

Chase swallows painfully, looking up at her through the artificial darkness. "What are you doing here?"

"Sorry!" says Park, quickly and a bit too loudly. "You weren't supposed to wake up."

"I wasn't asleep," says Chase. It feels oddly shameful to be seen by her now, though on some level he is aware of the fact that she was with him in surgery, has seen his body unclothed and clinically dead beneath the harsh cast of the lights.

"You were supposed to be asleep," says Park, and suddenly Chase thinks that she hasn't intended to speak with him, has wanted only to observe from a safe distance, unseen. Though he has resented the shallow words of sympathy and support from the others, this seems unquestionably worse.

"Why?" asks Chase. "House send you to spy? Make sure I didn't just get up and run off?"

"That's not funny," says Park.

"You can come in here if you're not going away," says Chase, her position as spectator growing increasingly unnerving.

"You almost died," she counters, coming over to the bedside chair, but standing behind it instead of taking a seat. "Twice, actually."

"And you're—what, scared it's contagious?" asks Chase, piqued. "Careful. Hang around me long enough and you might not be able to walk either. Should've thought of that before I agreed to come back and work for House."

"What does it feel like?" asks Park, obviously curious.

"Like I'm surrounded by asses."

"I meant—almost dying," she presses.

"I don't remember it," Chase answer immediately, forcing himself to focus on the solidity of the ceiling tiles above him, fight against unbidden flashes of the tricks his dying mind has played, the unbearable clarity of the void at the end of it all. He finds himself unable to even consider speaking the words aloud, as though this might somehow lend the terrible truth more power over his current world.

Park takes an audible breath and then nods. It is obvious that she does not believe him, but also is not bold enough to push further. "Did I do the right thing?" she asks abruptly. "I mean—asking Dr. Cameron to come here? I just thought—you need help, and you wouldn't let us help you, so I thought maybe—"

"Yes," Chase scoffs. "I'm _way_ more likely to open up to the ex wife who left me. Thank you so much for that."

Park seems to wilt immediately, looking as though she's been slapped. "I'm sorry! It's just—you don't have any family except your sister. And you told Adams that you always felt like you had to take care of her. So we thought—if someone was going to take care of _you_—" She pauses and takes a breath, avoiding his eyes. "If you don't want her here, I'll get rid of her. I'll go tell her to leave right now. You don't even have to talk to her again."

"No," Chase interrupts, surprising himself. He feels immediately guilty, realizing how very much of a habit bitterness has become, defenses creeping into reflex before he's even realized. He is immensely grateful to have Cameron here now, difficult as that is to admit. There _is_ no one else, he realizes; Park and Adams are not the sort of friends he might ask for the profound level of help he is now faced with needing, and the idea of staying in the hospital any longer than necessary is still unbearable.

"I—need her help," he admits, after a moment.

Park looks deeply hurt, and Chase finds himself wishing for someplace to hide.

"So—what?" she asks. "You just said all of that to mess with me? Make me feel like crap? You almost died. We were worried about you."

"I'm sorry," Chase offers, lamely, too well aware that she is right and it is not enough.

"I have work to do," she answers, and leaves without meeting his eyes.

* * *

><p>Chase feels an unexpected mix of relief and trepidation when Cameron returns. He has lost track of time, does not know whether she has been gone anywhere near long enough to warrant alarm. And yet he knows the state his apartment has been left in, is aware enough to fear her discovering the sort of person he has allowed himself to become. The sort of person who would unquestionably disgust her. But she is smiling when she walks in, and Chase instantly feels the sense of comfort which has always seemed to accompany her presence, in spite of everything.<p>

"Hey," she says quietly, coming to a rest at his bedside. The lights are still turned off, and she makes no move to change that. There is something oddly intimate about the darkness and the stillness; if he closes his eyes, he might be able to forget the present moment, to believe for a brief time that he is with her somewhere else, where everything between them is all right still.

"Hi," Chase answers, realizing that he has been silent too long. He wonders immediately whether she has guessed where his thoughts are, whether she would be repulsed by them.

"How are you feeling?" she asks instead, fingers playing along the edge of the bag that she has over her shoulder. The tension in her body tells him that she is as uncertain of this as he, and Chase finds himself wondering what she is hoping.

"Fine," he answers automatically, because there seems no way to tell her that his entire body feels foreign now, even reflexive movements now a conscious effort.

Cameron smiles wryly. "You're a crappy liar. But that's okay. I brought the clothes you wanted. Do you want me to help you change?"

"No," Chase answers instinctively, frustration flaring again. I don't need help _dressing_ myself. I'm not a child."

Cameron sighs, studying him for a moment. "Okay. But is it worth the energy? You ripped your stitches just by trying to get off the couch."

"I just—I can't." It feels like a defeat—yet another thing which he has taken for granted, yet another realization of how very much he has lost.

"I know—this is hard," Cameron says gently, sitting on the edge of his bed. "More than hard. Impossible, actually. But—it'll be a little easier if you stop fighting yourself. It's okay to need help."

"It's—not that," Chase answers, suddenly acutely aware of her proximity, of how easy it would be to simply reach for her again, ignore the distance that has grown up between them since the divorce.

Cameron frowns, smoothing her hand over the edge of the bed. "Then what?"

Chase takes a breath, swallowing the doubt which always accompanies honesty. "It's just—there's always a limit. We want to help each other, and we have the best of intentions, but—We can only do so much before there's nothing left to give. And I'm—going to need so much."

She softens visibly, and for an instant the intensity of emotion in her eyes leaves him breathless. "Okay," she answers, softly. "Do you want me to get a nurse, then?"

"No." Chase bites his lip. "It's just—Give me a bit, okay?"

Cameron nods, then smiles again, shifting the bag from her shoulder to her lap, and reaching into it. "Look what else I found."

Chase feels a rush of embarrassment as she pulls out the threadbare stuffed dog which has held a place in his bedroom since childhood, a gift from his grandmother to ward off nightmares. Cameron is the only person he has allowed to know this particular secret in years, and having it brought up now makes him feel overwhelmingly vulnerable. "How did you-?"

"You hid Big Dog your sock drawer," says Cameron. "Which, if you recall, is also how I found him the first time. " She draws in a breath, holding the stuffed animal out to him. "I didn't do this to upset you. I just thought—it might make you smile."

Taking Big Dog from her, Chase buries his nose in the artificial fur for a moment, breathing in the scent of fabric softener. Suddenly he is acutely aware of everything he has dared to share with her over the years. All of the new attempts at connection he has made seem to pale in comparison to the fact that she knows about this peculiar comfort object of his, remembers, and has taken the time when she ought not to be here at all. _This_ is what has been missing from his life, has driven him to countless nights with nameless strangers, searching without daring to let himself succeed.

"Allison," Chase whispers, allowing himself to reach for her hand at last. "Thank you. And—I missed you too."


	7. Chapter 7

TITLE: Exit Wounds (7/?)

AUTHOR: enigma731

PAIRING: Chase/Cameron

RATING: T

WARNINGS: Spoilers through 8x11.

_*****NOTE: I realize that the background we just learned from the finale would have taken place simultaneously with the timing of this fic. But, I am NOT going to include that in this AU, because it wasn't planned in and doesn't fit. I will, however, be writing a finale post-ep in the very near future. (And I honestly thought the finale itself was pretty perfect, although of course I have my own interpretation of some things. ;) ) Also, I hope you guys still want to stick around and read fic, because I have a whole lot to say now.**_

* * *

><p>Chapter Seven<p>

It's a distinct relief, being back at work. The office smells of old coffee and paper as Chase pushes through the door, and House is nowhere to be seen. But Foreman and the team are seated around the table, a file spread out between them, and this is familiarity enough to set him at ease. It feels like coming home, finding his purpose once more after endless directionless days, solace from the wraith-like grasp of loneliness which has seemed to drain all of the hope from his life.

Taking another breath, he approaches the table, already anticipating the challenge of a new case. But he has not made it two steps inside the doorway when everyone looks up in tandem, an unnatural hush sweeping over the room as the familiar rhythm of their conversation dies instantly. Foreman holds up a hand which is obviously intended as a barrier.

Chase goes still, the first sense of apprehension rising in the back of his throat like bile. The looks in their eyes turn him cold, a sick shock banishing the sense of calm he has so desperately been craving.

"What?" he asks, the sound of his own voice seeming to echo off the glass walls of the outer office, as though the space around them might truly be much larger. "I'm back. And you've got a case. Can we just—get back to normal already?"

Park bites her lip, looking as though she might cry at any moment. "No."

"Why the hell not?" Chase snaps as anxiety blossoms into dread in the pit of his stomach. It seems so simple: the only true comfort he has known in the past three years strewn just out of his grasp on the surface of the table, a new riddle promising a few hours' escape.

Adams gets to her feet, and only then does Chase notice the bandage wrapping her arm, bright, rusty patches of blood seeping through. She seems to have aged a decade overnight, the newly-shifted lines of her face reflecting the depths of grief. "Because you died."

Only then does Chase become aware of the gaping wound in his chest, the thin fabric of his dress shirt torn to shreds. His own skin hangs open like a hideous undergarment, bloody sutures trailing as though his very life has begun to come apart at the seams. And underneath it all, his heart, covered in foul-smelling rot, spurting blood black as ink with every beat, the scalpel planted firmly in his left ventricle like an enemy flag.

When he looks up again, the office and the team are gone, replaced once more by the cold and the darkness, the sensation of ash under his bare feet confirming his worst fears, that he has been saved from this place without hope only to be dragged back once more, inescapable eternal punishment. This place is infinitely worse than any vision of fiery damnation he has been taught, panic now all-consuming as he realizes for the first time that there is absolutely no escape, even suicide an impossibility now.

Chase wakes with a raw cry and a fresh wave of pain in his chest which feels as though his flesh might be laid open anew. He is still surrounded by darkness, though the solidity of the bed beneath him seems fragile confirmation that he is back in the world. Reflexively he tears at his shirt, fighting it over his head in spite of the pain. It is almost a shock to find the neat bandages intact, no sign of fresh blood or gaping stitches. And then Cameron is at his side, catching him by the arm, her presence unmistakable even in the darkness.

"Hey," she says gently, but there is an edge of urgency in her voice. "Lie back. You're going to rip your stitches if you keep struggling."

Suddenly he recognizes that he is not in the hospital but his own bedroom, though the bedside IV pole and heart monitor have made it nearly unrecognizable in his nightmare haze. He remembers now his afternoon insistence at being discharged, the way it had seemed then that being in the eternal spotlight of the hospital was impeding his ability to heal. But now a new fear emerges as he realizes that the pain in his chest is only growing more intense, air more difficult to force into his lungs. Suddenly it seems as though his vision of the void might have been a harbinger rather than a nightmare, pure terror consuming him once more.

"Allison," he manages frantically, though even the act of speaking seems to drain what little air he is able to inhale. "Call an ambulance."

Instead she takes both of his hands in hers, looking impossibly calm as she sits on the edge of the bed. "It's okay. It was just a bad dream. Try to breathe."

It feels as though his heart might be on the verge of exploding from his chest, every beat crushing agony thundering in his ears, and there is still not enough air. "Do it!" he insists, wrenching away from her with strength found in pure panic. "I think—think I'm dying."

"You're not dying," she answers firmly, laying her hand on his arm again. "You're in pain and you're having a panic attack. Just try to breathe. Slowly."

But it is impossible to believe with each breath growing more difficult, his field of vision receding into blackness beyond which he senses the presence of death.

"Listen to me," Cameron presses, her hand on his cheek drawing him back to the present momentarily. "Look at the monitor. Your heart is fine, but you're going to pass out if you don't stop hyperventilating."

Clinging to her words, Chase forces himself to turn and focus on the heart monitor they have brought home from the hospital, convincing himself by moments that she is right, the pulses of electricity on the screen far too rapid, but still regular. Cameron shifts to sit beside him on the empty side of the bed, taking his hands again as though he has not just pushed her away outright.

"Look at me and breathe," she instructs quietly, lacing their fingers.

Silently, Chase meets her gaze, her eyes reflecting the green glow of the monitor. Already the weight in his chest seems lessened, though the pain is no better. Slowly drawing one breath after the next, he allows himself to feel grounded in her presence, to become aware of what a relief it is having her here now. Cameron is in pajamas and looks exhausted, her hair framing her face in unkempt waves. Her left cheek is delicately lined from the folds of the sheets, and Chase reaches out instinctively to brush his thumb over her skin. For a long moment she does not pull away, instead covering his hand with her own. The gesture catches him by surprise, filling him with unexpected sick grief at intimacy long-passed, happiness never meant to last.

It seems to take an eternity for the panic to subside, replaced by a tender stillness. Everything feels just a bit surreal, as though the fragile calm he feels now might be ripped away again by any moment, disaster just around the corner of each passing breath.

"How's the pain?" asks Cameron, moving away from him at last to sit up straighter, all business once more.

Chase swallows, finally allowing himself to take stock of his body once more. "Bad." The sharp, stabbing pains have subsided, but his chest throbs with an intense, deep ache, as though he can feel his own flesh stretched tight by the sutures.

Cameron nods once and gets to her feet, spending a moment going through the supplies on the bedside table before producing a partly-filled syringe.

"Morphine," she says quietly. "Give me your IV port."

Sucking in a breath, Chase holds out his wrist with the IV line exposed. He is still shaking, but Cameron slips the needle into the port effortlessly, reminding him unexpectedly of how long it has been since he has seen her at work. The morphine feels like ice slipping into his veins; his limbs grow heavy, and he sinks more fully against the bed as the pain also starts to recede.

"Better?" asks Cameron, and he nods wordlessly. "Can I get you anything else? Water? Tea?"

"No," Chase answers after a moment, feeling suddenly exhausted. Every part of his body feels unnaturally weighty, sleep already threatening to overtake him once more, except for the remaining fear, the inability to relinquish his conscious mind entirely.

Cameron nods once, making her way back around the bed and stretching out across the empty half of it. Chase catches his breath once more; even dulled by drugs and exhaustion, her proximity is overwhelming. The thought of simply reaching out and holding on is desperately tempting, yet he forces himself to remember that she is here out of necessity, that her concern now is rooted in her deep compassion for anyone in need, and not any sort of specific desire to be with him. He has already squandered that possibility beyond hope; if he is honest with himself, it is an act of supreme selfishness simply allowing her to be pulled back into his life now.

"Don't do that," he manages, as she reaches out to adjust the sheets. The words come out more harshly than he's intended, but the look of hurt confusion in her eyes seems only to confirm his apprehension.

"Do what?" she asks, frowning. "I can get another blanket if you'd rather."

"You should go back to bed," says Chase, firmly. "In the guest room. It's there for a reason."

"I'm fine here," Cameron answers, and he cannot tell whether she is being intentionally stubborn. "You need to get back to sleep too. And whatever you were dreaming before—It was obviously pretty awful."

"So now you're my personal talisman? Here to ward off bad thoughts?" asks Chase, regret slipping quickly into bitterness as he thinks of all the nights she has been here before, the way her comfort has always seemed such a profound promise. And yet, it was not enough to save their marriage, will not be enough for a miracle now. Of this he is already certain.

"I'm here to help you," she answers, vaguely.

"Exactly," says Chase, darkly.

Cameron sits up abruptly, and it is a shock to meet her gaze directly once more, even in the darkness. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"It means—you came here to help me. Medically. And that's all." Chase takes a breath, trying to remain calm even as the emotions of the past week sink in fully at last, undeniable here in the private space of his new apartment, this place where he's intended to leave all memories of her behind. "You say that you missed me, but you're the one who left. Who asked for the divorce. And that's—that's fine. But it's done. The first thing you told me when you got here was that you've got no intention of giving up your life in Chicago. So don't act like this is anything other than a temporary diversion for you."

"I was just—trying to help," says Cameron, looking taken aback. She gets to her feet, but remains standing at the edge of the bed. "I need to know that you're okay."

"I'm _not_ okay," Chase snaps. "And you can't just fix it by acting like you're not better off without me, Allison. It's not going to work like that just to make you feel better."

"I never said I was better off without you," she insists, looking at the floor. "And this _isn't_ about me."

"I know you've always said false hope's better than none at all," says Chase, forcing himself to take a breath and exhale some of his frustration. He does not have the energy for a full-blown fight with her now, and is aware that he is being unfair to her besides. "But if that's all you've got to offer right now, then I'd rather not have any. So please. Just stick to the medicine."

Cameron bites her lip, looking broken in a way that he has not seen for years. "Is it false that I still care about you?" she asks, very quietly. "That I want to be here for you now?"

"You care, but you can't actually be with me," says Chase, bitterness and anger shifting unexpectedly into grief once more. "That's—worse than false. It's _cruel_."

She takes a slow breath, moving unsteadily in the darkness as she rounds the bed again, this time clearing supplies off a chair she's brought in from the living room and sitting on it instead. "I'm sorry," she answers quietly, clearly upset though he can no longer see her face. "But I _am_ your doctor, and I'm going to stay here until you fall asleep."

Settling back against the bed, Chase remains acutely aware of her presence. He feels an odd sense of comfort, even in the wake of his unexpected anger and regret, as though she alone might actually be able to pull him back from the brink of terror. Now he feels enveloped by loneliness, unable to shake the thought that she could be sleeping beside him were it not for his past mistakes, his preoccupation now with a future that seems unbearably bleak.

"Allison, I'm sorry," he says after a moment, feeling intensely vulnerable in the stillness of his pre-dawn room. "It's just—He took away my control with that scalpel. All of it. Can't walk, can't take care of myself. God, I can't even control my own thoughts half the time. When I'm half asleep and it starts to hurt, it's like he's _here_ all over again, with the knife. Part of him is still in my head, I think. So it's hard, knowing that you've got control over me too."

"But I don't," says Cameron, gently. "I'm here to help you, however I can."

Chase smiles in the darkness, sadly. "You _always_ had control of me. Just by being you."

"I don't want to hurt you," she answers, earnestly. But still she does not make any promises.


	8. Chapter 8

TITLE: Exit Wounds (8/?)

AUTHOR: enigma731

PAIRING: Chase/Cameron

RATING: T

WARNINGS: Spoilers through 8x11.

_**NOTE: Sorry for the delay on this. I feel like I've been writing this chapter a few sentences at a time all summer, but I still have more planned! If you want more frequent updates on fandom things (and gratuitously adorable pictures of my birds) you can follow me on Twitter at BirdBrain711.**_

* * *

><p>Chapter Eight<p>

Cameron chooses the last booth against the wall in the cafeteria, fighting the urge to keep her head down as she wraps her hands around the warmth of a cup of coffee. She has been back in Princeton for nearly two weeks now, and yet it still feels as though she is trespassing here, waiting to be discovered. Glancing around as she takes a sip of the strong coffee, she realizes that she does not recognize anyone else in the room. Though she has never made much of a habit of socializing outside of her department, the familiar atmosphere of other people's routines moving around her own had been a comfort. Now she is forced to acknowledge once more that this world has continued to turn without her, that the life she has temporarily left behind in Chicago will continue forward as well. Not for the first time she feels helplessly torn, a riddle without solution she has created for herself.

"Hiding in the cafeteria?" House's voice makes her jump, though Cameron supposes she ought to have expected this as she watches him slide into the booth across from her.

"I'm not hiding, I'm having coffee," she answers, taking a sip to punctuate her point. "You don't seem to have had any trouble finding me."

"Not hiding," House parrots, slowly. "And yet you're having coffee down here, while Chase is upstairs in physical therapy. I thought you and your Florence Nightingale complex would be all about watching that session like a spectator sport."

"He asked for privacy," says Cameron, attempting to swallow the first subtle stirrings of unease. "Unlike you, I try to respect those requests." House has an angle; he's come here for a reason, and she's almost certain that it will hurt worse than Chase's rejection of her latest attempts at support.

"But you don't," he insists. "Not when you think someone needs your help. You poke and prod until they give in and act grateful."

"Maybe I've changed," Cameron answers flatly. She knows instantly that he is baiting her, though she is unsure what he hopes to accomplish, how he plans to use her vulnerabilities this time.

"And maybe I'll be running the New York Marathon this year," House shoots back, without offering any further explanation.

Cameron draws in a deep breath, and takes a deliberately slow sip of her coffee. It has begun to get cold in the relentlessly artificial hospital air. House is unnervingly still, simply watching her with a gaze which seems to travel beyond her, into the past.

"What are you doing here?" she asks at last, willing to grant him this small concession in order to simply move forward.

"Interviewing," says House. "Too bad you didn't think to buy any food. Then I could have had lunch, too."

"What, I've been gone so long that you've forgotten who I am?" Cameron snaps back, increasingly unsettled. "Or did you just miss psychoanalyzing me?"

"Dr. Cameron," says House, ignoring her question, voice swelling with familiar grandiosity. "You might be aware that I am short one team member."

"Because you think Chase will finally be done with your insanity after this, or because you're trying to scare me into believing that he won't get better?"

House shrugs, unfazed by either accusation. "Those are two possibilities. Either way, I've got an open spot for a while. Or longer. Of course, there's also the convenient fact that hiring a third woman for my team would make the upcoming departmental Jello wrestling tournament _much_ more interesting."

Cameron rolls her eyes, rapidly losing patience with this ploy. "Seriously, House. What's your goal here? To run me off after you wanted me to come in the first place? Test how much you can manipulate me now? To humiliate me, make me cry in front of the whole class? Not going to happen."

House shakes his head, growing serious for the first time in this conversation. "My _goal_ is to offer you a job in my department. What exactly is your plan? Moonlighting for pocket money while you're here?"

"My plan is none of your business," Cameron answers, tensing.

"Do you really think I haven't done any digging on you in the past two years?" House asks, darkly. "I know that you're not exactly in a position to be getting any paid time off. You know, there _was_ a time when you occasionally believed I was capable of good intentions."

Only then does it sink in that he is serious, that he actually expects her to take over Chase's position on the team. As if that would not seem the ultimate betrayal. "That was before you ruined my marriage," Cameron snaps, giving in to anger at last, though she is aware it is not entirely rational. "And here you are _still_ trying to play me against him. If you honestly think I would do that to him now, you can go to hell."

House's gaze darkens. "Right. You're here to help Chase. How exactly are you doing that, again? By hiding out here in the cafeteria while he goes to therapy? Helping him check out of the hospital too soon? Allowing him to continue avoiding any kind of emotional reaction to the fact that he'll probably never walk again. Yeah, that's _really_ helpful."

"He _wanted_ to be alone!" Cameron answers, realizing belatedly how loud her voice has grown when a woman at the next table turns to stare. "He's angry. What do you expect me to do?"

"I expect you to push," says House. "I expect you to poke and prod and make that ridiculously concerned face you're so good at. I _expect_ you to be who you were before you left, because that's what Chase needs right now."

Cameron bites her lip, looking down into the depths of her now-empty coffee cup, familiar doubt settling weightily on her shoulders. House is right, she knows. House is always right. Things with Chase feel impossibly fragile now, moment to moment like spinning glass. "Maybe I don't remember how."

"Take the job," says House, evenly. "Might jog your memory."

"You don't really want me on your team." Suddenly it seems unmistakably clear. "You just want a way to keep tabs on me and Chase."

House does not offer a denial. "Money doesn't hurt either."

* * *

><p>After therapy, Chase is pale and silent, obviously in pain though he refuses to admit it. Cameron allows him the space as they leave the hospital, stealing sideways glances at him on the short drive back to his apartment. The conversation with House has left her questioning everything once more, doubting her ability to help here. He is right, she thinks, that she has been allowing Chase distance, allowing him the comfort of avoiding his own emotions, or at least avoiding sharing them with her. It has seemed like the safest course to take, given the circumstances, and given his resentment when she'd gotten too close.<p>

Now she is reminded that physical distance is what's made her feel so responsible for his self destruction. It seems that perhaps emotional distance might be just as bad.

"How was therapy?" she asks at last, as she helps him from the passenger seat into the wheelchair they have on loan from the hospital. It feels odd having him in the chair, though over the past week he has grown more adept at this particular routine. Still, it is an unwelcome reminder of that eternal year with her first husband, in which she'd learned far more supportive care than any other time in her true career.

Chase shrugs, offering no further answer as she wheels him up the sidewalk toward his building, silently grateful that it is a mild winter, saving them the danger of icy ground. The elevator ride makes Cameron feel intensely vulnerable on his behalf, instinctively ready to protect him from questions should one of his neighbors appear. It makes her wonder what Chase is thinking, whether he feels equally threatened by the world right now.

"I'm coming with you next time," Cameron says, when they are inside his living room. House's words have continued to weigh on her, though she still cannot bring herself to fully trust his intention to help Chase.

"What?" he looks up at her finally, as though just registering that they are no longer at the hospital.

His jaw is taut with pain, and Cameron moves quickly to bring him a fresh dose of the pills which have replaced his IV. "I'm coming to your next therapy appointment. I should be there."

Chase swallows the pills with a reflexive ease that reminds her eerily of House, face shifting into a mask of disapproval. "I don't need you to do that."

"But I need to be there," Cameron repeats. "I should have insisted on it today."

"I don't _want_ you there," says Chase, his tone growing more forceful now. "I'm not your play thing, you don't get to come sit around and get off on watching them try to fix me! Not like there's anything to see anyway. Two hours practicing getting in and out of this damn chair. Showing me how to move my legs up and down so my muscles don't completely atrophy while I wait for my heart to heal enough to try and stand up. Turned on yet?"

"_That's_ why you're upset," says Cameron, calmly, ignoring his venom. Suddenly the pieces seem to fall into place. "Therapy's moving more slowly this time."

Chase drops his head into his hands, shoulders shaking as he draws in a long breath. His voice is muffled when he speaks again, filled with exhaustion. "Last time—they had me walking in days. Not a lot, but still—walking."

Cameron kneels in front of him, gently taking his hands so that she can see his face. When he meets her gaze at last, his eyes are filled with grief so intense that she finds it difficult to breathe.

"I'm sorry," she offers, gently. "I just want to be there so they can teach me how to help you. That's all."

"They wanted you to be there today too," Chase admits, swallowing visibly. "God, I'm making House look like a saint, aren't I?"

Cameron laughs wryly, surprised once more by this hint of intimacy. "Not quite yet."

"I'm sorry," he offers, pulling his hands away after another moment.

Cameron nods once, getting to her feet. "Do you want to lie down? I can help you change."

Chase nods in return, but refuses to look at her as they move into the bedroom, as he struggles to get onto the bed. This, too, has become more routine, though Cameron finds it impossible still to remain completely detached, to see this as purely medical. Chase pulls his shirt over his head with visible effort, sinking back against the pillows to watch her pull on surgical gloves. The gauze that protects his stitches feels impossibly insubstantial as she peels it away, pleased, at least, to see that there is no evidence of fresh bleeding. His chest is darkened by bruising around the incision, painful to look at, and he grimaces as she gently cleans the area before replacing the bandage.

"Thank you," he whispers as she throws the gloves into the trash, handing him a clean shirt. Cameron recognizes it suddenly as one she'd often worn to bed when they were together, and the realization makes her heart catch in her throat.

Chase looks up at her when she's been quiet for a moment too long, and Cameron shakes herself, taking a pair of sweat pants from a dresser drawer. He manages to pull them on with her guidance, slowly, a little at a time, the most laborious task he has attempted all day. Afterward, he leans back against the bed again, breathing hard and obviously still in pain. It feels odd not to touch him now, when their relationship has always been so intensely physical, when he is so obviously in need of comfort. Cameron finds herself playing with the sheets again, searching for something else to do.

"I talked to House today," she says at last, because it is the only thing she can think to say. And because she is certain House will do more damage if she does not tell him herself.

"Yeah?" Chase shifts in the bed slightly, exhaling with the effort of even a small movement.

Cameron hesitates, immediately questioning her decision to bring this up now. "He—wanted me to take your spot on the team. I told him absolutely not. That the last thing I want is for him to start playing games."

But Chase shakes his head immediately, surprising her with the intensity of his reaction. His emotions are a complicated rollercoaster now, impossible for her to figure out. "Take the job."

For a moment she is utterly speechless, taken aback by his refusal of her intended solidarity. "Why? I thought you didn't want anything to do with him."

"_I_ don't," says Chase, voice rising again. "But I want _you_ to take it."

"That wasn't the deal," Cameron protests, unsettled by the thought that once again House knows him better than she does. "I came here to help you. _I_ don't want anything to do with House. Not ever."

"I don't care what you want," Chase answers, bitterly. "You have to take it."

"Why?" Cameron presses, feeling overwhelmed by this sudden rush of adrenaline, truly panicked for the first time by the enormity of being back here, of being pressured by House in a way that she's vowed never to allow again.

"Because," says Chase, "House is feeling guilty about what happened. At least I know he's trying to protect me. _You_—I still don't know what you want."

This time the retort hits her like a punch to the gut, and she finds herself unexpectedly blinking back tears.

"Then maybe I should go back to Chicago and let House take care of you." Cameron regrets the words the moment she's spoken them aloud. He has every right to doubt her, she thinks; what hurts is that she has put herself in this position, has violated his trust so terribly.

"Please don't," Chase whispers, sounding utterly broken again. "God, I'm sorry. I don't know why I keep trying to hurt you."

"It's okay," Cameron answers, but she's said these words so often lately that they are beginning to lose meaning. Carefully she sits on the edge of his bed, needing to be closer though she doesn't dare reach out to him now.

"I wanted you to take the job because I'm selfish," says Chase, surprising her by laying a hand on her arm. "I want you to stay, at least for a while. And I know that I'm not—enough."

"You were enough to get me here," she says quietly.

"But never enough to keep you." Chase lets his hand fall back to the bed, leaving her feeling oddly chilled. "Think I always knew that. Just didn't want to believe it."


End file.
